We Owned the Night
by maryjayne.kojetin
Summary: Sherlock is having a hard time focusing on anything other than John. First Part in a series entitled Loving Watson
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock couldn't sleep; could hardly eat, and his concentration was pitiful. None of these observations would be so out of the ordinary if he had been working on a case, but he wasn't. No, it was something else that was twisting and contorting his insides, making him an insufferable fool to himself. The fact that he knew what it was only made things worse; he knew exactly what was happening, and he didn't like any of it.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. There were moments that he enjoyed, like when John sat himself down in his armchair, hair damp from the shower, bathrobe tied tightly around his waist, and his legs crossed so that his freshly cleaned skin hung out against the air. He also enjoyed when John leaned over his shoulder, nearly touching his cheek against Sherlock's, to see something on the laptop. The smell of John, whether it be his shampoo, his aftershave or simply just the mixture of cotton and sweat that came naturally to John was intoxicating; nearly better than any thrill Sherlock had ever felt before. There were moments when they just sat together in the same room, satisfied to be in each others company, and Sherlock could hear John breathe; slow, contented breaths that hit against Sherlock's ears like a happy symphony.

But then there were moments, like the one Sherlock was currently suffering through, where he wanted to just throw John in a box and keep him out of sight; when John was home from an early ended date, wearing his best dark jeans, and his favorite maroon button down, his cologne wafting into the kitchen from the living room while he paced back and forth mumbling to himself about what went wrong. It clearly wasn't Sherlock's fault this time (for a change); he had been in the flat all night catching up on an experiment. Not only was John's standard date night attire distracting every time Sherlock glanced out from the kitchen, but his distress was as well. The musings on whether it had been the choice in restaurant, the conversation (talking about cases seemed to worry most of his dates, but his job at the clinic always bored them, and he didn't like to talk about his time in the army) or maybe it had been that, on this particular night, John's date was nearly ten years younger than him; 32 years old, but mentally only going on 25.

Sherlock wanted to tell John that it was none of those things; that the restaurant he chose was as good as any for a third date, that a conversation with him could never be boring or worrisome, and that, while nearing middle-age, he was not too old even for the immaturity of her. That in fact, John was perfect in every way, and the problem lied with the woman, who was dating more than just John, and had been feeling conflicted.

But of course, that is not what Sherlock said when he opened his mouth.

"John, make some tea."

"You are two feet from the stove Sherlock, make your own tea." John snapped back to Sherlock's demand. Had it been a demand? Sherlock meant for it to be a suggestion.

"Not for me; for yourself. It will calm you down."

"I don't want tea." John said, the bitterness from his night still in his voice.

He had stopped pacing and was leaning against the entry to the kitchen, watching Sherlock hold a lighter to the end of a large, exotic looking leaf.

"Yes you do." Sherlock said, not looking away from the flames in front of his eyes.

John signed, and moved into the kitchen, "Yes, I do."

He filled the kettle with water, set it to boil and rummaged through the container of teas until he found a soothing earl gray. He dropped the bag into his mug and waited for the whistle.

"What are you doing anyway?" John asked, watching Sherlock gather the ash of the leaf and spreading it on a glass slide to then place it under the lens of his microscope.

"Cataloguing differences in the ash of tropical leaves burned with different accelerants."

The kettle whistled and John poured the hot water over the bag, some splashing back and hitting his hand.

"Right, and you need to know that why?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, "Because I _can_ know it."

"Ah, of course; silly me for even asking."

There was a slight pause in the room, and then John spoke again.

"I'll leave you to it then. Goodnight Sherlock."

"Goodnight John."

Sherlock had his eyes to the microscope, but he shifted his glance up just a bit so that he could watch John take his tea up the stairs. When he heard the door close he let out a relieved sigh. _Good, now I can focus. _He thought to himself; he was still dealing with the control portion of his experiment at a time when he thought he would be well onto his third accelerant.

Focus,however, did not return to him.

Sherlock's eyes kept glancing toward the stair case on the far side of the kitchen, kept thinking about John lying underneath his covers, no doubt taking care of his frustrations, sexual and otherwise, in a physical manner; that was after all the make of the male; Sherlock himself had given into the inevitable need for the physical release of tension a time or two before.

He breathed out an exasperated groan, and pushed his materials across the table in a half tantrum, letting them nearly fall to the floor. His infatuation with John was taking up more space in his mind than he realized; nearly every compartment had information pertaining to the different pitches in his speech pattern, the different gaits he used when walking, his preference for raspberry rather than strawberry jam on his toast, the different colors of his jumpers, and what mood he was in when he wore a specific one; every wire in his bloody brilliant brain was lighting up _John. _It needed to stop; Sherlock needed to stop.

He pushed his chair away from the table and strode quickly to where his skull sat on the mantle. He lifted it up to reveal his not too cleverly hid cigarettes. John kept them there knowing that when Sherlock feigned for one he was in such a flurried state he never remembered that was where they were, but he remembered now, and he needed one; just one to calm his nerves. He fumbled with the pack, drew out the long, smooth, white stick, plucked it between his lips and brought the lighter he had been using with his leaves moments before up to the exposed end. The fragrance hit his senses before the taste; the acidic smell of burning paper quickly mingled with the tobacco before fading into combination with the chemicals and additives. Then the taste came; bitter against his tongue, slightly peppery on the uptake. He crossed the flat and opened the window to slowly exhale the evidence of his weakness out into the winter night.

It had begun snowing several hours ago; slow at first, little flurries that fell down as if they were unsure if their presence was acceptable, but not long after the flakes grew, apparently not comfortable enough with themselves to completely cover the London streets and rooftops without the least bit of shame. It had rendered the streets outside 221B nearly devoid of life, just an amber glow reflecting against the heavy precipitation. Sherlock rattled off the components that made up the wintry substance in his head as he watched more fall and mingle into what was already there. His cigarette was nearly done, so he flicked it out the window where it disappeared quickly. He tried to content himself with watching the snow come down; though he absolutely hated sentiment, he did find the scene in front of him quite lovely to watch, and he was aware that some people found relaxation and peace in the natural forces of the world. Sherlock usually found peace and relaxation on the wrong side of crime scene tape and at the controlling end of a gun. He didn't have the option for either of those right now, so he continued to try with the nature thing.

It wasn't working.

He reached into the pack that he had tucked away in the pocket of his dressing gown, and pulled out another cigarette, popped it in and lit it. This one was a bit more relaxing than the first. He could feel the nicotine buzz through his veins, and course down to his extremities. By the time that one had been flicked out to the street underneath him he was feeling better, but still not right enough to head back to his abandoned leaves, so he took out another. Sherlock seemed to be on autopilot; when one cigarette was done, he pulled out another until he realized his head was pounding and his stomach was horribly churning (not to mention his lungs screamed every time he tried to take a breath of real, actual air). He stumbled over to his chair, and slumped against the leather, now cold and stiff from the open window. He closed his eyes trying to stop the fuzzy spinning, trying to keep the stirring in his stomach at bay, but it was only getting worse as the seconds passed. Sherlock leapt from the chair, ran through the kitchen, knocking the things he hadn't managed to push to the floor earlier now down onto the cool tiles with a loud crash and banged the bathroom door open. He immediately fell to his knees in front of the toilet and lifted the lid. He proceeded to vomit, loudly, and almost violently.

It was absolutely awful.

When he was finished, he rested his back end against the heels of his feet, wiped the corners of his mouth with his finger, and took in slow, deep breaths.

"How long have you been there?" Sherlock asked, not turning around, but knowing that John was standing behind him.

John was a doctor, and the younger brother of an alcoholic, so he had obviously seen people throw up many times before; likely a few people had actually managed to throw up on him, but in the two and a half years they had known each other, John had never seen Sherlock throw up.

"Long enough."

John walked to the sink and ran a cloth underneath the cold water of the tap, wrung it out and bent down in front of Sherlock. He dabbed the corner against the sweat on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock kept his eyes averted, looking at the pads of his fingers resting on his lap rather than at the sweet concern in John's eyes.

"Sherlock, you smell like a tobacco field."

"I may have gotten carried away."

John chuckled just slightly and used another corner to press against Sherlock's mouth.

"You've gone and given yourself nicotine poisoning no doubt." He stood up and tossed the cloth in the sink, and then went over to the shower and started it, running his fingers underneath to check the temperature. "Wash that smell off of you." He said.

"John, you don't have to-"

"Just do it. I'm going to get you a glass of milk."

John left the bathroom, and left Sherlock to undress and get into the shower. He still felt disgusting; the inside of his mouth tasted like he had eaten an ashtray from a rehabilitation center. He stood underneath the spray of the water, let it hit against the top of his head, roll down to his shoulders and slide down both his chest and back simultaneously. He heard John shuffle back into the bathroom, and saw his hand attached to a glass of milk appear behind the curtain.

Sherlock took the glass and drank; the silky texture coating the inside of his mouth. When he was finished he placed it on the side of the tub, and John's hand appeared again to take it away.

"What ever possessed you to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes?" John asked.

If things had been the way they were before, John would have been much more quick to interject into the situation; would have shown much more anger and much less restraint, but as things currently stood in the flat that they shared, John had been keeping his composure when Sherlock did something crazy, reckless, stupid; something so completely..._Sherlock. _Sherlock supposed that this was because of feelings John had not yet dealt with about Sherlock's return from the grave. The other possibility was that he had dealt with those feelings, and Sherlock's time away had just changed the way John saw him; it certainly had changed the way in which Sherlock regarded John.

"Boredom I suppose."

Of course that wasn't why. Sherlock had been bored without a case, but he had been finding other things to occupy his time.

"I know things have been tough, but Greg will get everything straightened out and you'll be back at it again."

Sherlock curled up the corner of his mouth at the sound of reassurance he heard in his John's voice.

"It's been six months already." He said, suddenly finding himself in a conversation about something he wasn't actually all that upset about.

He, surprisingly, understood it would take Lestrade some time to clear his name, some time to convince the higher ups that the DI actually needed the Consulting Detective from time to time; although, he wouldn't mind if it happened sooner rather than later.

Sherlock turned the water off and stood in the cold, empty tub aware that John had not left. He reached out blindly and grabbed his towel, wrapped it around his waist and pulled back the curtain. John stood opposite him, toothbrush and paste in his hand.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, taking it from him and stepping up to the sink.

"Will you be alright then if I go back to bed?"

"All out of cigarettes." Sherlock said, half joking just to lighten the awkward mood that had settled over them.

John went to leave, but stopped as he reached the hallway, and turned back, looking at Sherlock through the mirror. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but whatever it was died before it ever left his throat, and he continued on as he had been until he was out of sight.

Sherlock put his toothbrush and the paste back into the medicine cabinet. He pressed his hands heavy against the porcelain of the sink, and pushed his weight down onto his arms. He stared at himself in the mirror, trying to pinpoint exactly when it happened; when he let his guard down enough for John slip into his heart, and just when precisely did he, Sherlock Holmes, even become capable of loving another person the way human beings were intended to love? He postulated that it must have been from the first moment he met John; when he tried to actually impress him instead of just show off for the sake of showing off like he usually did, must have been when John so quickly proved that he was Sherlock's equal (a fan of risk, danger and other things that most people shy away from).

He supposed that he had loved him from the very beginning.

Not good.

Sherlock heard the clearing of a throat behind him; John had come back.

"I thought you were going back to bed?"

"I was, but I didn't hear you, so I was worried; are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm still a bit nauseous, so I was just taking a moment."

John slid next to Sherlock and opened the medicine cabinet, his bare arm brushing just slightly against Sherlock's cheek. He brought a bottle of thick, peppermint white liquid out, and opened the cap.

"Drink this; it will calm your stomach, but you're going to feel like shit for the rest of the night, and probably tomorrow too."

Sherlock took the bottle and took a drink; it tasted much like it looked; like mint leaves and sugar.

"Why did you do that?" John continued, "Why on Earth did you smoke all of those?"

"You asked me that already."

"Yes, well, I wasn't very satisfied with the answer."

"I was trying to get my mind to focus."

"I see. Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock wasn't sure what _it_ was; what John was referring to, so he shrugged, letting John take the lead of the conversation.

"You've told me the why and the how of everything, but you never told me how you felt. I never asked, because I know you; you don't like to talk about your feelings over anything, but I've been noticing you haven't exactly been yourself lately, and maybe it would help a bit if you just talked."

Oh. John wanted to talk about that. Sherlock's three year hiatus from the world he loved, and his eventual return was something that he had put behind him rather quickly, but John had not, and had managed to assume that Sherlock had not as well.

"You must have been scared; lonely..." John kept going.

John looked so concerned, and so beautiful, sitting on the bathroom floor with his back against the tub, one knee pressed between his arm and his chest. Sherlock couldn't deny him this moment to feel important; to be the person that Sherlock Holmes opens up to about the dark blemish in his life. So, Sherlock slid down against the wall next to the bathtub, carefully aware that he was still only wrapped waist down in his towel.

"I was lonely; it's not that I'm not used to loneliness, but I had become to accustomed to the life we had been living; to seeing your face in the morning-" he stopped himself before he divulged too much about the things that Sherlock found himself missing about John, "I had gotten used to the routine and relative normalcy of living with another person, of having a friend."

Sherlock took a breath and continued.

"I was scared too; scared that I would fail-"

"Sherlock, I've never seen you fail at anything before; you're perfect."

Sherlock laughed, "Perfection is attained through fear." He said. _Except for you, you've managed to achieve perfection just by existing John Watson. _

"I was afraid that if I failed that you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would be killed, and that wasn't something I was willing to live with. If I had died in the process, so be it, anyone who mattered already thought that I was, and to be honest, I'm surprised I've made it this far."

"What does that mean?" John asked.

"Being in and out of hospitals when I was a child, the drug use, the risks I take on a case; I've exceeded my own life expectancy."

"Well, you better keep exceeding it; how else can we grow old and lose our minds together?."

"We're growing old together?" Sherlock questioned with slight amusement in his voice.

"Of course."

"Going to let me live with your wife and children and then lock me in the spare bedroom when company comes?"

John laughed, Sherlock could be quite funny when he wanted to, "I think it's pretty safe to say there are no wives or children in my future."

"One of your dates might turn out."

"Not likely; I think I have reached my peak and then passed my prime."

Sherlock found himself reaching across the space between them and placing his hand on John's thigh. His heart jumped in his chest at the surprise of what he had done, but then he noticed that John had not pulled his knee away, hadn't even jumped at the contact. Sherlock looked to his face to see if he could find an answer in his eyes, but they were closed; John was relaxed. Sherlock pulled his hand back to his lap anyway, and watched John's eyes open at the loss of the contact; was that disappointment; sadness in his eyes. Of course it wasn't; Sherlock must have been imagining it, but then again Sherlock's mind wasn't capable of making things up, except for that one time it did, but he had been drugged; there were no hallucinogenic chemicals in his system at the moment; just endless clouds of nicotine and tar.

They were silent for a moment, their breathing echoing against the tiles of the room.

"Did the medicine help?" John asked

"A little, yes."

"You should get some rest then; I'll clean the mess in the kitchen." John pushed himself up from the floor, and reached his hand down to help Sherlock up as well. He pressed his fingers onto the outside of John's hand, and smashed their palms together and allowed John to use most of his weight to pull Sherlock up to his feet.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes; I'm just going to throw it all on the table; you can sort it out tomorrow."

"Thank you." Sherlock walked behind John, watched him go into the kitchen and then went turned down the hall a little ways until he was in his bedroom. He replaced his towel with pants and a pair of pajama bottoms then crawled underneath his heavy blankets. He found, upon wrapping the thick duvet around his body, and pressing his head firmly into the fabric of his pillow that he was quite exhausted. He closed his eyes and hope his mind would shut off long enough to catch a few hours.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock woke up much later than he had anticipated. His head was still heavy, and his mouth still tasted terrible, but the pain he had experienced the night before was gone. He didn't bother with dressing in anything other than the pajamas he was already wearing and pushed his bedroom door open. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and his tongue once again, using most of the paste in the process as he scrubbed the layers of filth out from his mouth. He would add it to the list on the fridge of things for John to pick up next time he went on a grocery run. Sherlock rinsed the brush and replaced it. He left the bathroom and next went into the kitchen.

The glass that he had broken in his mad dash had been swept and tossed into the bin, but every other piece of his experiment that had toppled down was now sitting on the table in a pile just as John had told him it would be. He began to sort through and see what was salvageable when John slid past him toward the sink, a plate of crumbs gripped in his hand, having come from the living room; while it was late for Sherlock it was still rather early for John to be up, and he eyed him curiously.

"Good morning." Sherlock said.

"Morning." John responded.

He placed the plate in the sink and left the kitchen to sit in his chair. He picked up the paper and rested it in his lap, holding the left side up higher so he could see the word he was reading. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and stared at John for a moment; normally he was much more vocal in the morning; he should have at least asked Sherlock how he was feeling.

"Are you upset with me?" Sherlock ventured, peeking his head around the corner of the kitchen.

John shook his head in response.

"Are you upset about something else?"

John shook his head once again, "No."

Sherlock was obviously missing something. John was showered and dressed, and he had already had tea and breakfast, so he had to have been up for at least two hours already. He had gone to bed rather early the night before, but then Sherlock had woken him, and by the time John went back up the stairs it had to have been well past two in the morning, and yet he had been up early and already dressed even though it was his day off from the clinic. The list on the fridge was still there, so he obviously wasn't planning on going to the store, and John didn't do lunch dates, so he wasn't up in anticipation of meeting with someone in a few hours. What's more, the expression on his face was almost blank; there wasn't a hint of what might have been going on inside his head; it just looked as though he was reading and absorbing the information he had found in the morning paper.

"I'm feeling better this morning." Sherlock said, trying to prod John into a conversation.

"That's good." He responded. A devilish smile formed from his lips and he brought his hand up to his mouth to try and straighten them back out.

"Have you seen your mobile? I thought I might have heard it earlier." John asked once he had evened himself back out.

Sherlock knew something was going on, but he wasn't able to figure it out; nothing about John was giving him away. Sherlock realized he hadn't taken his phone to bed with him; it wasn't on the table, so it must have been in the living room somewhere. He crossed out from the kitchen into the living room and scanned for where his phone might be. He quickly found it on the edge of the desk sitting next to John's laptop. He picked it up in his hand and swiped his finger across the smooth gloss of the screen; John watching him the entire time. There was no alert for a text or a missed call, but Sherlock ventured further into his folders until he saw a text from Lestrade sitting on top of his list of texts with John, that had been sent and seen earlier that morning.

_Finally sorted everything out. As soon as I need your help, I will let you know. Welcome back! _

Sherlock read the words a few times over before he allowed himself to feel the excitement that was bubbling in the pit of his stomach and quickly rising to his chest. He thought about restrainging himself further and keeping the sensation inside, but, truthfully, he didn't want to, and he knew that John wouldn't care in the least, so Sherlock let the feeling come to complete fruition and escape; a high pitched yelp, a jump into the air.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asked John

"You needed your rest."

"Please, 'my rest', you came up with this little plan shortly after Lestrade sent you a message telling you the same news, and since you thought it was clever you stuck with the idea, got dressed, ate breakfast and waited for me to awaken."

"Yes, I did. Does it really matter how you recieved the news? It's good news either way."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and slammed himself down into his chair, "I suppose not."

"Now we just have to wait."

"Yes, well, I doubt it will take long; I'm not sure how they've managed to solve anything in my absence."

John laughed, "Yes, I'm sure the professional police department struggled terribly without you."

"Of course," Sherlock replied

A silence fell over the room. John had gone back to reading his paper and Sherlock stared at the wall across from him, occasionally stealing a quick glance to his flat-mate. He was slightly disappointed that he had missed John's morning routine of sluggishly retreating down the stairs; his pajama bottoms askew from the tossing and turning he often did in his sleep, his shirt creeping up slightly to reveal a small patch of skin, mechanically starting the kettle, pulling down his mug and reaching around the body parts in the fridge for the milk. Sherlock's daily witness to it reminded him that he wasn't there living his life alone; that John wasn't just a visitor who came and then left, but that a part of his life was also part of Sherlock's life.

Knowing that a case was going to be coming his way was already making Sherlock tick. He needed the distraction, needed the puzzle and the challenge; he was nothing if he didn't have the game to go back to; just a vessel of intelligence that would ultimately expire and be forgotten.

"If nothing comes along in the next hour, I think you'll have to go out an commit a crime." Sherlock said, breaking their silence, "Nothing crazy, just a minor theft or a kidnapping or something."

"Sherlock, I'm not kidnapping someone so that you can have a case to work."

"I'm sure Lestrade would be able to pull some strings and you'd already have to serve any time."

"No. Just be patient."

Sherlock furrowed his brows and narrowed his eyes, looking directly at John.

"Yes, I heard how ridiculous it sounded." John said.

Sherlock smiled and relaxed his face again. They settled back into their comfortable silence until it was broken by the trill of Sherlock's text alert. He nearly tipped the chair backwards scrambling to his feet to retrieve it; tangling his long legs with each other.

_Double murder. Meet at this address; I'll explain when you get here._

"Double murder John!"

John closed his paper with an excited rush and his eyes widened, "double?"

"Yes, isn't it exciting?"

"Yes, well, no." The look of enthusiasm that had covered John's face just a moment earlier had faded into one of stoic seriousness, "Someone's murder is not something to be excited about Sherlock; it's not good."

"John," Sherlock pressed his hands down on John's shoulders and looked him square in the eye, "It's only me and you here. I know you are just as excited as I am; I have been driving you mad since my return and if a case hadn't come along in the next day you were likely about to scurry to Harry's or Lestrade's for a while just so you didn't kill me. So, please, leave the 'not good' in your head and be yourself, because I have never asked you to be anything other."

Sherlock was a little taken aback with himself at the last part of his statement, but there was no taking it back as they had already been spoken, so he just unclasped John's shoulders and left him there in the living room while he went to shower and change.

When they arrived to the first scene Lestrade was waiting. Upon hearing that there was a completely separate, yet related scene somewhere else Sherlock nearly fainted from glee, but he managed to keep his composure. John and Lestrade stood near the entry of the dry cleaning store that the body of Libby Buxton had been found in when an important package was being dropped by the back door. The scene was hard to take in; blood pooled around her head, splattered over the wall and the desk and even a few traces that had made it back against the items of clothing that had been waiting to be picked up. They both watched as Sherlock hovered over the young girls' body like a vulture looking for the best piece of meat to start with.

"Oh, God, did he just smell her?" Lestrade asked, bringing his hand up to his forehead.

"He could have done worse." John answered.

"Would you two quiet down over there?" Sherlock called as he leaned in closer to examine something that had caught his eye down by her fingernails.

"Sorry, we're just tying to pass the time while we wait for you." John called back.

Sherlock looked up from the body for a moment to shoot John a look of annoyed anger. John bit down on his bottom lip to stop the smile that had crept along his mouth when he caught the look, and that in turn made Sherlock smile as he went back to his examination.

"Right." He said, popping up, his coat switching behind him, "John, what do you think?"

"Don't ask me Sherlock, you're the expert. I'm just here to make sure you don't scare the public too terribly."

"Do stop being cheeky and come here."

John sighed and left his post with Lestrade to cross the small distance to where Sherlock stood with the body. John crouched down just as his partner had before.

"Oh God," John said, "She's young isn't she?"

"Sixteen."

"Sixteen?" Lestrade interjected, and he too joined the other two men over the body, "The ID we retrieved from her purse said she was 25."

"It's a fake then obviously."

"Christ, sixteen? That's the same age as Lilly." Lestrade said aloud to no one in particular, thinking of his daughter at home.

"Why would a sixteen year old girl carry around an ID claiming to be 25? She only needed to add a couple of years to make it into the pubs." John said.

"It wasn't for the pub then."

"No." Sherlock said. "This is the only shop closed on the street today right?"

"Yes." Lestrade answered.

"Well, her family owns a string of these around the city; a few just outside. She could have been here for any number of reasons."

"She was meeting someone." Sherlock said, "The same someone who killed her."

"An older boyfriend? Was this just a crime of passion?" Lestrade asked.

"Perhaps; it might explain the excessive age on her ID. I'll need to see the other crime scene. I'd like access to her body as soon as possible and photos of the footprints as well."

"Of course."

The three of them left; John and Sherlock following Lestrade from their cab. Sherlock looked out the window, fitting together the pieces of the puzzle he had just taken away from the crime scene and trying to make some sense from them. He was thankful to Libby and the other girl they were on their way to see for their untimely death; they would alleviate his boredom and give him the distraction that he needed to keep John out f his head. _John. _He was sitting next to him, silent, looking out his own window at the passing of London, giving Sherlock the means to fall into his mind, and do whatever it was that he needed to, completely content to just be in the space as him. John didn't need for Sherlock to speak him, he didn't need for Sherlock to be thinking of him (though he had no idea how often he actually did); he just needed to be in the same proximity as him; that was always enough. For both of them.

They arrived to the second scene; identical to the last in almost every single detail. The same chain of closed dry cleaner on a street of busy shops, the same pool of blood, the same spattering against the wall and the desk and the clothes; a young girl with the same face dead on the floor.

"This is Alice Buxton." Lestrade exclaimed, "Her ID does in fact claim she is sixteen."

"How extraordinary." Sherlock mused, walking around the body for a moment before kneeling down and taking a closer look at her. If it wasn't for the difference in their clothing, he would have sworn he was looking at the same girl; that he had never left the first scene.

"They're twins." John exclaimed.

"Obviously."

"Why would someone kill them both?"

"That's a good question." Sherlock picked up Alice's hand gently and inspected the same trace of blue fibers in her fingernail. He stepped away from her and looked down to the floor at the same muddy and bloody shoeprint from earlier.

"You mean you don't already know?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm afraid I don't just yet."

"Right, well, you'll have access to her body as well as soon as I can get it and someone will drop off the photographs for you a little later."

"Not someone Lestrade; you will drop them off. I can't stand anyone else on my doorstep."

"You should take that as a compliment." John said.

"Is a compliment from Sherlock Holmes actually a good thing?"

Sherlock took one more glance around the scene, already fitting it in with the pieces from the first, and left. John followed, as he knew that he would, and they got into a cab to head back home.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stood in front of the mirror on top of the fireplace staring at the photographs from the crime scene. There was something bothering him about the shoe print; how it was exactly the same, and in nearly the same place at both scenes. The dry cleaners were only a matter of minutes away from each other by foot, so it was likely that the killer could have killed the first twin, and then rushed to kill the second; but why? And why was everything identical?

He heard the door open downstairs, and the unmistakable sound of John's sad footsteps. He glanced at the time on his phone; it was nearing two in the morning. Sherlock hadn't expected John home once midnight came and passed; he was always home before midnight if a date didn't go well.

"Just where I left you." He heard John say upon entering the flat.

Sherlock mumbled something in response; he knew John wasn't expecting even that, so he didn't bother to tear his thoughts away. He felt John slide behind him so that his reflection was visible to the detective in the mirror. Sherlock granted him a small glance and then went back to his photographs.

"Learn anything new? "John asked.

"No, and it's quite maddening."

"Maybe if I stare too." He rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder, and squinted his eyes so hard that they nearly closed.

Sherlock wanted to laugh, but he kept his composure, and stared straight ahead, trying to keep his thoughts on the task at hand rather than the close proximity of John. Tried to focus on the facts he needed instead of the facts of John; he smelled of beer rather than wine, so the date had gone bad. The cold London wind was trapped in his hair, so the date had gone very bad in fact leaving John to walk home rather than take a cab.

They were always closer than they needed to be really, usually it was Sherlock invading John's personal space and hardly ever the other way around. John had assumed early on that Sherlock didn't like to be touched or be close to at all really, and had formed a small respect for sticking to that assumption; truthfully, Sherlock didn't mind being touched so long as he understood the purpose behind it, but he let John think what he wanted anyway.

John finally shifted away and sat himself down in his chair, and let out a loud sigh.

"Did you need to talk about tonight then?" Sherlock asked.

"What? No, I don't want to disturb you."

"Too late for that now isn't it? Just get it out so you can have your tea and go to bed and leave me alone" Sherlock turned around from the mirror and leaned against the mantle, and started the conversation.

"Do her roommates not like waking up to strange people in the morning, so she kicked you out?"

"I wouldn't know; I never made it home with her; never even had the date with her."

Sherlock was already aware of this; he had figured it out by the time John took his sixth step up the stairs, but he knew that John liked to tell his stories, so that was another thing Sherlock let him get away with.

"So, you went to the pub until two in the morning?"

"No, I was only there until about midnight; spent the last two hours walking around."

"I see. Well, her loss then right?"

John laughed, "I suppose so." He pushed himself up from the chair and started to the kitchen to make the tea that Sherlock had mentioned. Sherlock had already brought his attention back to what he was doing preciously, but he felt John stop behind him once again.

"Thank you." John said.

"For?"

"Taking a minute to listen to me."

"Yes, well, I-I never would have been able to concentrate with you sighing about the living room; I just needed to shut you up."

John didn't move from where he was standing just behind Sherlock, half of his face, his eyes mostly, visible in the mirror. Sherlock tried to ignore him, hoping that John would tire from standing and continue with the mission for tea that he had abandoned, but he didn't seem to be going anywhere. Sherlock caught a glimpse of John's eyes and how they had risen on his face; he was smiling underneath the detective shoulder.

"I know something that you don't know." John finally said, breaking the silence.

"I doubt that."

"Would you like to know what it is that I know?"

"If I say yes will you then leave me be?"

John nodded and then opened his mouth to speak, "You want me."

Sherlock's body freeze and for a moment all the thoughts left his brain, as if his Mind Palace had been burglarized by John's words.

"It's okay Sherlock," John said, and then he felt John's height shift as he rose to the tip of his toes, his body running against his own, "Because I know something else you don't know."

"Wha-what's that?" Sherlock managed to ask.

"I want you too." John whispered into his ear.

"That uh- that's quite flattering John, but-"

His words trailed off and his mind started to work again.

_John wants me, and he assumes, quite correctly that I want him; want is not the same as love, it's not even the same thing as like or need. Want is desire; it comes from an animalistic place of taking and having; keeping is just an option. John is vulnerable right now; his third failed date in a matter of two weeks. He's feeling the effects of middle-aged bachelorhood, and has likely formed a physical attraction to me out of a confusion with his sexuality that started when he was a teenager and has come back again looking to be resolved; he'll regret this in the morning. But I will regret not taking my chance in the morning._

Sherlock wasn't a reasonable man, but he was logical, and John was not a logical man, but he was reasonable; if in the morning one or either of them deemed it a mistake they would be able to work past it and continue on as they always had, shoving the mistake underneath the rug where it belonged.

"To hell with it" Sherlock exclaimed and turned so that his lips crashed into John's.

John must not have been expecting that reaction, because he stumbled backwards a bit and Sherlock had to forcefully grab at his arm to keep him on balance. Neither man asked permission from the other as their tongues found station in the other's mouth; cataloguing the different tastes and textures. John's hands gripped at the side of Sherlock's face, his fingers just dusting against his hairline trying to pull the detective closer, but there wasn't anywhere else for him to go; they were already pressed so close together, Sherlock could feel John's body heat nearly melting through his shirt. In and effort to appease John, Sherlock pulled him to the nearest chair, pushed him down and straddled hi long leg over the doctor's thighs; not stopping for a moment to break the kiss.

John' mouth was wonderful; it was a cacophony of malt and hops and the coarse salt from the crisps he ate at the pub. Sherlock broke their mouths free when he was sure he had collected a sufficient amount of data (for the moment; he suspected there would never be enough data collected on John Watson) and pressed his lips along other parts of John; his jawline, the lobes of ear, and then down to his neck. He nibbled his teeth into the skin just masking John's pulse and took note of the moan that it produced from the depths of the older man's throat.

Sherlock was so busy tucking away information he didn't even notice John's fingers had slid open the buttons of Sherlock's shirt and his hands were now running up and down the length of his chest. Sherlock managed to pull his lips off from John and steadied his hands against the arm of the chair, and arched his back, pushing his torso nearer to John. John finished removing Sherlock's shirt, letting it fall to the floor and immediately connected his mouth to Sherlock's milky skin, exploring the planes of his chest and his stomach. The sensations John's lips and tongue elicited made Sherlock groan in response; there were no words to describe the multitude of pleasure he was feeling; the anticipation of wondering where John's mouth and hands would travel to next on his oft neglected body.

Sherlock leaned back into John, reached his finger hurriedly at the hem of John's striped jumper and the shirt underneath it, John raised his arms to allow for the shirts to come off, but as soon as John's body was exposed to the air Sherlock caught the first look of hesitation in his eyes. Was he starting to doubt this already? The same look of passion was still there, hidden underneath the unsure shake of his irises. Sherlock noticed that John had angled his body so that his left shoulder was slightly behind the rest of his body. In the years that they had known each other John had never purposefully showed Sherlock his scar; he never came down from bed or out of the bathroom from a shower without a t-shirt on. There were a few accidental moments where Sherlock had caught John without his shirt, but they always ended as quickly as he had stumbled into them. Sherlock gently put his hand on John's shoulder and urged it out from hiding. He traced his fingers lightly over the puckered scar tissue, following the starburst lines out from the center.

From the corner of his eye he watched as John tentatively watched him, wincing slightly as Sherlock explored.

"John; it's beautiful." Sherlock said, pressing his lips against the scar, "you're beautiful."

He claimed John's lips once again for a brief moment; teasing at his lips slowly and gently; much different from the heat and the passion that they had started with.

Sherlock kissed and bit at John's neck and shoulder while John did the same to Sherlock. Their hips began to rock into one another; Sherlock rutting down and John pushing up creating the perfect friction.

"Oh, Christ." John exclaimed when Sherlock pushed down into him rather hard.

It was beautiful the way Sherlock could make John come undone. John was just as rigid and controlled as Sherlock was; keeping most of himself reserved behind a thin wall, but underneath the detective that wall had disappeared as he panted heavy, short breaths, as his eyes flickered closed and his hands moved frantically across Sherlock's body from the soft mess of his curls to the clothed perfection of his arse.

"John, I-"Sherlock said, feeling the warmth begin to spread in the pit of his stomach.

They had been so busy trying not think about what they were doing that neither of them had bothered to take their trousers off, but the strain that the fabric and the metal zippers put on them only made the experience that much more intense.

"Me too, Sherlock. We'll cum together." John said, barely above a whisper.

The rush of sweet release came over both men as each called out the others name until they blended together into just one sound. Sherlock collapsed onto John, his forehead against the doctor's shoulder as they both attempted to regain the skill to breathe. Sherlock breathed in this new scent of John; all the familiar smells that he had come to know, but now with the faint scent of Sherlock intermingled as well.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke up with a pain radiating from his ankle, up his spine and to the base of his neck. He carefully pulled himself out of the ball he had curled into throughout the night and felt the hardwood of the floor underneath his body. He sat up and twisted the kinks away. When he turned he saw John curled against the back of the armchair they both had occupied a few hours earlier. He looked uncomfortable, his legs swung over the arm rest, his head struggling not to slide off the slick leather. Sherlock stood from the floor and took a blanket from the couch to lie over John so that at least he could be warm. He wanted to stay and to watch John sleep; watch the rise and fall of his chest, watch his eyelids flutter, but he was supposed to be meeting Lestrade at the home of the murdered girls. He and John were both to be meeting him there, but Sherlock wasn't ready for the conversation John was going to want to have, and he wasn't ready to watch John suppress his feelings for the day while Sherlock ignored them for the case.

He tore himself away from the living room and went into the bathroom. He peeled off his trousers and pants, tossing them in the corner to likely be thrown away; they had fallen asleep so quickly that they didn't take the time to clean themselves. He stepped into the shower. Normally a shower for Sherlock consisted of only the necessary; wash his hair, wash his body, shave if he needed to, and get out, but on that morning he just stood underneath the cascading water and let it soak into his skin. His brain replayed the night before trying to make sense out of it. When it had begun to drive him mad, Sherlock stored them away, temporarily of course, finished his shower and got out. He dressed, ran a towel and then his fingers through his hair and returned to the living room to take his coat from behind the door.

"Sherlock?" He heard John call from the chair.

"I'm going to meet Lestrade."

"I thought we were both going."

"Yes, well, I'm already out the door and you're still sleeping; I'll be fine on my own."

"Oh." John said. Sherlock could hear the disappointment in his voice, "I'll see you later then."

Sherlock nodded his head and hesitated a moment before leaving the flat. He managed to hail a cab and rode to the Buxton residence.

"Where's John?" Lestrade asked upon seeing only Sherlock exit the cab.

"Not feeling well this morning. I'm afraid you're stuck with just me" Sherlock answered, whizzing past the DI and onto the front step.

Lestrade followed, and they waited for someone to answer after Sherlock's knock. Eventually the father of the girls' came down and opened the door. Lestrade offered his condolences to him for for the tenth time since the case had begun and Sherlock stayed silent. They were led upstairs and into the bedroom that Libby and Alice shared. Sherlock went straight t work lifting papers off the desk, clicking around in files on their two separate laptops.

"Looking for anything in particular?" Lestrade asked as he watched Sherlock turn up the mattresses of their beds.

"You have a teenaged daughter Lestrade, where does she hide things she doesn't want you to see?"

Lestrade's mouth dropped at the idea that Sherlock Holmes actually knew something about his personal life aside from his marriage troubles; it took him a moment to answer.

"Uh, well, she keeps her diary online, so I don't think she has much to hide from me. Although, she does have a shoebox in the back of her closet filled with old photos of her mother and me."

Sherlock immediately took to the closet; the left side had graphic t-shirts of varying colors and a row of jeans with trainers and sandals tucked neatly in the show rack below. The other held pencil skirts, neutral colored blouses and several pairs of high heels. He threw the rack of shoes from the right side of the closet and pulled at a loose board in the very corner. He remerged with a thick, black notebook.

Inside was an elaborate collection of codes and dates and monetary amounts. He flipped through a few pages and then handed it over to Lestrade who did the same.

"She was a bookie? How does a sixteen year old girl become a bookie?"

"She wasn't sixteen; she was 25."

"So, what, someone was upset about losing money?"

Sherlock rubbed his hand across his forehead, "Her sister found out that her family wasn't involved in just cleaning spots off from suit jackets and the like, but they also ran a rather elaborate betting pool; Libby was involved, but Alice was not as she didn't even have a clue until a few days ago."

"Are you suggesting that she killed her own twin sister?"

"It wasn't on purpose; she went to confront her about it, got into an argument which quickly escalated into murder."

"Well, how did she end up killed then?"

"Mistaken identity; Alice's boyfriend works for the bookie ring too. There's a picture of him here on Alice's desk and another in the journal with Libby; lots of muscle and strength, so he's the enforcer. Something went wrong and Libby had to pay for it, only he took Alice for Libby."

"He didn't know his own girlfriend?" Lestrade asked.

"He wasn't the one sent to do the job; couldn't kill his own girlfriend's sister; the man he did send didn't know the difference, killed Alice thinking it was Libby and when the man in this picture came to see that it was taken care of he left his shoe print near the body as he bent down to hold her. He then went to the other crime scene, having received a text from Alice that she had done something terribly bad just before her demise and he made the same shoe print so as to clear her name from any wrong doing. Find the muscle and you'll find your second killer; your first is already dead."

Lestrade stood with his mouth hung open as usual after Sherlock made a grand statement. It always took hi brain a few moments to catchup. When it finally had Sherlock was already out of the room and out the front door, taking advantage of the moment to get a cab and not have to go back to the Yard. He could have gone home; should have gone home, but he wasn't ready, so he unexpectedly stopped off at his tailor and found himself being fitted for several new suits. He took his time picking out the colors for the shirts and deciding between cotton, linen or silk. He even tried on a few pairs of shoes, and some belts; purchasing one of each. He even went so far as to buy several packs of socks he didn't need and replacement shoelaces for the loafers he had already. When there was nothing left to purchase, he took his bag and the receipt for pick-up of his suits and found a cab to finally take him home.

He hung his coat on the back of the door, and took notice of John sitting behind his laptop at the desk. Either man acknowledged the others presence and Sherlock brought his bag into his room. He spent more time than needed mating and putting away his socks, placing his new shoes in his closet and inspecting which ones garnered the attention of the new laces. There wasn't anything left to do, and so he forced himself to leave the bedroom. He thought about stopping to start an experiment, any experiment, but instead he went to the mirror and started taking down the photos.

John closed his laptop, "Are you done avoiding me now?" he asked.

"I wasn't."

"Sherlock-"

"Okay, maybe I was." He peeled off the last photograph and brought it around to his side of the desk where he placed them in the manila envelope with all the other items from the case. He slid it into the second drawer and then sat down across from John, ready to face what was coming.

John took Sherlock's silence and attentive stare as his permission to speak what was on his mind, so he started.

"I'm sorry about last night." He said.

"No, you're not."

"Damnit Sherlock, can you just let me talk?"

"Not if you're going to attempt to lie to me. You are not sorry about last night and you shouldn't be; I'm not either."

John let out a long, relieved sigh, "Oh God, I thought you had spent the entire day away from me so that you could delete it all like it never happened. But good, this is good."

Sherlock smiled slightly at John's relief, and he felt himself relaxing under the clearing of some of the tension that had been building since he returned home.

"What is it exactly you want from me John?" he asked.

"I don't want anything."

Sherlock looked at him confused.

"I mean, of course I want something; I want you; every bit of you, but I'm aware that I have always had every bit of you except for that last piece, which fell into place last night. I want everything to remain the same as it always has been, I want you to always be the same as you have been, because, I have never asked you to be anything other; only every now and then I get to take you to bed and shag you until you collapse and beg me to do it again."

Sherlock laughed at this, at the way John's sentiment took such an escalated turn. In the fit of his laughter, every endearing quality about John that Sherlock had tucked away came flooding out; how John always made a second cup of tea for him, how he never minded the self- imposed silence Sherlock pushed upon himself. John never minded anything Sherlock did; from the moment that they met John had done nothing put accept Sherlock for everything he was, everything he wasn't and everything that he never could be. Before Sherlock was even aware of what was happening, his laughter faded just slight enough so that he could speak.

"Christ, I love you John."

When his brain caught up to his mouth, he stopped laughing all together. That wasn't how he had intended to tell John if he had intended to tell him at all.

"I wasn't expecting that." John said.

"Sorry; too soon?"

"No, I mean I was never expecting that."

"You mean to tell me that you were just about to enter a relationship with me thinking that the love would always be one sided? Assuming you ever made it to the point of loving me."

"First off, I have already reached that point, and yes, I assumed that I would always be the one voicing my love, but I never thought you wouldn't love me; I know that you do; you just show it differently than most people."

"Well, I'm sorry that I've succumbed to normalcy."

John laughed. He got up from his chair and walked around to Sherlock so that he could slip his arms around Sherlock's neck and kiss gently at the smooth lines of his cheekbone. Sherlock melted underneath the feeling.

"I think we can overlook it this one time."

"Thank you."

"Can you say it again?" John asked.

Sherlock craned his neck and reached his arm behind him so that he was holding John's head in his hand, he smiled into his face, left a lazy kiss on his lips, and then,

"I love you John Watson."


End file.
